Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  Praise for G. R. Matthews

  ‘Corin Hayes’ adventure in Silent City in an altogether more visceral first-person adventure set in a far future where humanity has fled beneath the waves to live in undersea cities. The story is packed with action from the first page which has our hero preparing for a beating to the last where our hero is... (spoilers, as Riversong would say).’

  Fantasy Hive

  ‘Damn good fun, intriguing as hell, different and exciting, I devoured this book.’

  Dyrk Ashton, author of Paternus

  ‘Entertaining and exciting: Silent City is the start of a series I’ll certainly be following with interest.’

  Laura M Hughes, author of Danse Macabre

  ‘It had plenty of twists and turns, and I was on the edge of my submarigine pilot seat once or twice. The ending left lots of room for more adventure but wrapped up this particular part of the tale. It was very well done. I like Corin’s sense of humour too, so that was a plus.’

  Super Star Drifter

  ‘Corin, as a character, has been put through the wringer quite a bit and you feel for him or I certainly did. He’s awesome!’

  Rapture in Books

  “Truly stellar world-building, which combines all the griminess of cyberpunk with the majesty and terror of the sea.”

  Paper Plane Reviews

  First published 2021 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-78618-434-4

  Copyright © 2021 G R Matthews

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Designed & typeset by Rebellion Publishing

  eBook production

  by Oxford eBooks Ltd.

  www.oxford-ebooks.com

  Seven Deaths

  Of An Empire

  G R Matthews

  To every Emlyn: you really are the heroes of our world, whom we should acknowledge more often, more fairly, and with more respect. You’ve all taught me more than I realised at the time, but it is never too late to say “Thank you.”

  Contents

  I - The General

  II - The Magician

  III - The General

  IV - The Magician

  V - The General

  VI - The Magician

  VII - The General

  VIII - The Magician

  IX - The General

  X - The Magician

  XI - The General

  XII - The Magician

  XIII - The General

  XIV - The Magician

  XV - The General

  XVI - The Magician

  XVII - The General

  XVIII - The Magician

  XIX - The General

  XX - The Magician

  XXI - The General

  XXII - The Magician

  XXIII - The General

  XXIV - The Magician

  XXV - The General

  XXVI - The Magician

  XXVII - The General

  XXVIII - The Magician

  XXIX - The General

  XXX - The Magician

  XXXI - The General

  XXXII - The Magician

  XXXIII - The General

  XXXIV - The Magician

  XXXV - The General

  XXXVI - The Magician

  XXXVII - The General

  XXXVIII -The Magician

  XXXIX - The General

  XL - The Magician

  XLI - The General

  XLII - The Magician

  XLIII - The General

  XLIV - The Magician

  XLV - The General

  XLVI - The Magician

  XLVII - The General

  XLVIII - The Magician

  XLIX - The General

  L - The Magician

  LI - The General

  LII - The Magician

  LIII - The General

  LIV - The Magician

  LV - The General

  LVI - The Magician

  LVII - The General

  LVIII - The Magician

  LIX - The General

  LX - The Magician

  LXI - The General

  LXII - The Magician

  LXIII - The General

  LXIV - The Magician

  Acknowledgements

  Glossary

  I

  The General

  Ten years ago:

  The fist thumping on his door was the only warning, the only chance he had to prepare.

  “I am so sorry, they were both killed in the raid.”

  “And what about the child?”

  “Clear the room.”

  “But, General, we haven’t yet—”

  “Leave me,” General Bordan repeated. He did not look up from the parchment in his hand. It took every ounce of willpower not to crush the paper and the poisoned words which were written in a neat, tidy hand upon it.

  Around the polished wooden table, the men and women of the General’s staff exchanged guarded looks.

  “We’ll reconvene this evening,” Bordan repeated, choking down the sadness which tightened his throat and threatened to strangle his words. “Messenger, you stay.”

  The staff stood, gathered their papers, and shuffled from the room. No one spoke. Bordan calmed his heart and schooled his features into the mask of a professional soldier, someone who had sent hundreds to their deaths and would do so again.

  “You’ve done the Empire a sacred service,” Bordan said, scraping the wooden chair across the stone and standing as the door closed.

  “Legion Arcterus commanded me to make best speed from the front lines and deliver the message to you alone, General,” the messenger said. “He would not trust it to the magicians.”

  “And you’ve carried those orders out?”

  “Yes, General.” The messenger nodded. “I have spoken to no one of my mission.”

  “Not at any of the inns or way stations?” Bordan cast the messenger a glance and hooked his free hand into his belt.

  “No, sir,” the messenger said, a proud smile breaking across his face.

  “You know the contents of the message?” Bordan asked.

  “I was in the camp, General,” the messenger said, his eyes focusing on the past. Bordan watched as a glassy sadness crept into them.

  “And how fares the army?”

  “It was a shock, General,” the messenger said, his gaze returning to the present.

  “I’m sure it was,” Bordan replied, his own voice thick and the words catching in his throat. “How was the journey?”

  “The weather held, and no one questions an Imperial Messenger on the roads.”

  “Excellent,” Bordan answered with a smile, and stepping forward, drove his pugio deep into the messenger’s heart.

  The man’s eyes widened in shock and with a cough of blood he slipped to the floor. His hand trailed along Bordan’s arm from shoulder to wrist before his fingers lost their strength and the light faded from his brown eyes.

  General Bordan, most excellent leader of the Empire’s army, sighed and stepped over the body. Pausing, he retrieved a square of cloth from inside his tunic and wiped the blood from his hand and the blade of his dagger. Tak
ing a deep breath and holding it to calm the racing of his heart, he opened the thick wooden door.

  The guards to either side snapped to attention, spear tips pointing to the ceiling and their gazes fixed upon the painted wall opposite.

  “The messenger has taken ill,” Bordan said. “See to his comfort.”

  “Yes, General,” the guard on the right said without inflection.

  Both guards were Immunis, specialised troops whom he had selected personally from amongst the ranks of soldiers and paid double. They were loyal and trustworthy.

  “Ensure it is done with the minimum of fuss,” Bordan added, stepping past them.

  “Of course, General,” the guard replied.

  The long corridor was decorated with plaster painted with squares of vivid orange and red, a reminder of the setting and rising sun which encompassed the reach of the Empire, and the flame which warmed them all with life. Between each square, a small alcove in which the stern but benevolent bust of a past Emperor looked out upon all who walked the military corridor of the palace: a line stretching from the founder of the Empire to the latest Emperor. They had overseen centuries of prosperity, of wealth, and a culture the likes of which the world had never seen.

  As Bordan passed the first bust his posture straightened, his spine unbent, and his shoulders broadened. This is what it meant to be the General of the Empire’s Army. To defend all that it was from any threat, external or internal; to maintain and expand its borders, and bring all under one banner—no matter what the means, methods, or costs. The years fell away, but the stone of sadness remained heavy in his chest.

  He stopped at the most recent bust, that of the current Emperor, and spent a moment inspecting the carved face, letting the memories of the man’s life swell in him. Below this bust, as with all, a small flame flickered at the end of an oiled wick. A representation of their Flame, of their ever-lasting life: it held a promise and reassurance. Yet today, he felt neither reassured nor the promise of a brighter future.

  Doors of iron-studded wood sourced from lands which had once been outside the Empire, and constructed over two hundred years ago, opened out onto the courtyard of the palace. A great square of hard-packed grit and sand where soldiers paraded and Shields, the lowest of the officer ranks, shouted and screamed at their small units.

  “Atten-tion!” A loud voice echoed around the square and every soldier snapped to attention.

  Bordan, the warmth of the sun taking the chill from his blood, nodded to the officer who had spotted him as he stepped from the shadows of the doorway. She saluted and Bordan returned the gesture.

  “Carry on, Cohort,” Bordan said, his words carrying clear across the square without strain. A practised voice from the pit of his stomach, not used often in the past twenty years, but he was glad he had not lost the knack. Another day, another victory over age.

  “Resume march,” the Cohort shouted.

  Keeping to the covered walkway which surrounded the square, Bordan ignored the sight of the soldiers drilling and forced his mind to consider his next words. They must be chosen with care, sympathetic but professional. Now was not the time to panic. Plans must be made. Cool heads must prevail.

  In his mind the words spiralled and twisted in a sombre dance, but its rhythm and steps escaped him. He tore sentences apart and forged them anew. Formal gave way to informal and a moment later reasserted itself. These few words would be spoken to people he had known and cared about for more than three decades—a fact which made the task harder, not easier.

  Passing through the palace towards his destination he did not see the stares directed at him, the puzzled looks, the salutes, or the servants scuttling out of his path. At the final door he paused, offering a simple prayer that the past could look after itself if he, with enough thought and planning, could control the future. The words settled into his mind, a thousand seeds drifting to the soil where the sentence would grow and flower.

  “General,” the guard said, “the family is at lunch.”

  “I’m sad to say I must disturb them, though I wish it were not so,” Bordan said.

  “Of course, General,” the guard answered without emotion. His part had been played: he had challenged the need for the meeting and his superior had spoken. No blame could fall upon him.

  “Ensure we are not disturbed,” Bordan said.

  “Yes, General.” The guard knocked three times on the door and swung it open. He called into the shadowed interior of the rooms beyond, “General Bordan requests entrance.”

  “The General is always welcome,” came the quiet reply.

  “Thank you,” General Bordan said, favouring the guard with a nod.

  Stepping through the door, Bordan caught sight of the second guard inside as they slipped back into their dark hole. If he had not been announced and granted permission, the guard would have killed him—run him through with a sword without hesitation or care.

  Conversation and a sudden eruption of high-pitched laughter sounded ahead. The scent of spice caught his nose and tickled the back of his throat before the aroma of cooked meat brought a hot wash of saliva to his mouth. Breakfast seemed a long time ago, though he had thought his appetite had been driven away by the messenger’s note.

  Turning the final corner, Bordan found the source of laughter surrounding a long dining table laden down with food from every part of the Empire. Roast fowl, steam rising from its crispy brown skin, competed with haunches of beef swimming in rich gravy. Sizzling dishes of thinly sliced meat bubbled away next to bowls of pasta drowned in a deep red sauce. Bread—long and thin, thick and dotted with seeds, or twisted into convoluted shapes—rested on large silver plates. Shrimps, prawns, lobsters, and fish decorated a large serving bowl embossed with the dream of the coast.

  The imperial family and their guests sat either side of the table, though the chair at its head was empty. Next to the empty chair sat the woman he had come to see and, close by, her son and daughter. All heads turned as his heels clacked on the tessellated floor.

  “General,” called the Emperor’s son. “If we’d known you were hungry, we would have invited you to our small lunch.”

  “My Prince, I would have been honoured to attend, but my duties did not permit such an honour to befall me,” Bordan replied, focusing on keeping his tone neutral and his face calm, while behind it his mind raced and his heart beat loud enough that he was sure everyone could hear. It would do no good to betray the news to this gathering. Every noble, every power-hungry parasite and schemer who sat at this table with the imperial family had cause to hate the General, and many more would soon join that number, he mused.

  “Yet here you are,” the Empress said, her voice smooth with long practice.

  “Indeed, Your Highness,” he nodded. “I was unaware you were entertaining.”

  “You have something for us,” the princess, a young woman with golden hair caught in curls upon her head, said a smile of welcome upon her face.

  “Yes, Princess,” Bordan agreed. “Though it can wait until you have finished.”

  “Perhaps the General would like to pull up a stool,” Duke Abra offered, looking not at Bordan but at the Empress whom he sat next to.

  “General?” the Empress enquired.

  “That is kind of the Duke to offer me a seat at your table, Empress.” Bordan stressed the words, ensuring the Duke knew he was aware of the implied insult. Only peasants and the lower ranks sat on stools. “However, I would not interrupt. I will await your pleasure, Empress, in the Emperor’s study.”

  “It must be important to bring you from your duties,” Abra said.

  Bordan noted the tightening around the Empress’s eyes and the stares of her two children.

  “This is my duty, Duke Abra,” Bordan answered stiffly. Transferring his gaze from the hard eyes of Abra, Bordan looked to his Empress. “With your permission, Your Highness.”

  “You have it, General. Please make sure the servants provide you with a drink. I do not think
this meal will last much longer,” the Empress answered, her face resuming its mask. “My appetite has quite suddenly fled.”

  Bordan covered his half-smile with a bow in her direction as a hush fell over the table. A smart turn and he retreated to a room close by, one he knew well, settling into a familiar chair and accepting the glass of wine offered by the servant.

  He was satisfied when his hand did not shake.

  II

  The Magician

  Ten years ago:

  The city was vast and even at night, from the back of the cart which carried him through the gate, he could only wonder at its size. It looked a lonely place despite the people bustling about. He was already alone and this place held no comfort.

  Kyron walked the camp in a daze.

  Soldiers sat around their campfires talking in muted tones, and not one face wore a smile. There were no voices raised in song. No laughter and no grunts of a soldier taking his ease with one of the camp whores.

  Pots bubbled away unattended, burning the soldiers’ morning porridge to the black iron of their base. An occasional arm would reach out to absently stir the food, but no one ate. Bowls full of lumpy white paste rested upon the earth, steam rising and carrying the scent of food to the noses of men with no appetite.

  Few took notice of Kyron’s passing and no one called to him. Each tent and bedroll, which on any other day would be packed before breakfast was started, was still in place. Today the army would not march. The first day since spring had descended upon them that they lacked the will and drive to advance further into the forests of the northland.

  Even as the sun rose above the trees, turning morning’s gemstone dew into a thin grey mist which drifted to the canopy above, the sense of despondency settled anew into his heart. The aroma of loss overpowered the smoke from the fires and the scent of porridge charring in the pots. He drew it down with every breath, feeling it sweep through his limbs on each pulse of his heavy heart, draining the energy from his legs, and every step became a struggle against lethargy.

  Breaking free of the soldiers’ densely packed tents brought no relief. Three tents clustered in this clearing and all were embroidered with pictures and symbols which paid little regard for regulations or a colour scheme. Whatever colour was required had been used and if they clashed, the designer seemed not to care. The sight always brought a queasy roll to his stomach and his eyes forever told him he was balanced atop the tallest tree, looking down upon the forest floor far below, about to fall.